The afternoon was gray, heavy with the weight of a long day. Snowy heard the cries before she saw the cat, sharp and desperate, cutting through the hum of the city.
She stopped. The sound came from an alley near the delivery lockers, where she’d gone to pick up a package. A stray cat lay there, twisting on the cold ground, her body tense with pain.
Snowy’s heart caught in her chest. The cat’s eyes, wide and pleading, locked onto hers. She was struggling to give birth, alone and afraid.
Snowy stood frozen. She didn’t know what to do. The cat’s cries grew softer, weaker, as if she were giving up. Snowy’s hands shook. She couldn’t walk away.
A Moment to Act
The cat’s name would come later—Shiller, for the way she seemed to sing her pain. But in that moment, she was just a mother in need.
Snowy called a friend, her voice urgent, asking for a cage. It was meant for birds, too big, but it would do. She knelt beside the cat, whispering soft words, promising help.
The trip to the vet was a blur. Snowy’s heart raced as she carried the cage, the cat’s faint mews barely audible over the city’s noise. The vet’s face was grim. The first kitten was born, still and silent. It didn’t make it.
Snowy’s throat tightened, but she stayed. A CT scan showed three more kittens, waiting to be born. Snowy waited too, her hands clasped, feeling like a nervous parent in a hospital room.
By afternoon, the mother cat and her three tiny kittens were safe. Snowy brought them home, her small balcony their temporary haven. Her allergies flared—itching, sneezing—but she didn’t care.
She looked at the kittens, so small they seemed like mice, their eyes still closed. She named them later: a calico girl, Pingping, and two reddish boys, An’an and the eldest, who wouldn’t survive.
The Weight of Care
Snowy’s days became a rhythm of care. She cooked for Shiller—beef, lamb, fish soup with shrimp. Shiller was picky, sipping only the broth, ignoring the meat.
Snowy wondered if the neighbors had fed her better, if her cooking wasn’t enough. She tried canned food, mixing it with dry kibble.
Shiller ate, her eyes soft with gratitude, rubbing against Snowy’s leg. Each touch brought a wave of itching, but Snowy smiled.
The kittens grew. Pingping, the calico, was clever, finding milk first. An’an was mischievous, always tumbling into trouble. The eldest, the one Snowy called the “one-eyed dragon,” was clumsy but brave.
She watched them, her heart swelling, even as her allergies burned. She showered often, scrubbing away the itch, but she never stopped tending to them.
One night, a cry woke her. An’an had crawled to the sink, too small to climb back. Shiller tried to reach him, her paws slipping in the tight space.
Snowy lifted the kitten, her hands gentle, and placed him back with his mother. “It’s okay,” she whispered to Shiller. “He’s back.” The kitten nursed hungrily, and Snowy’s chest ached with quiet relief.
A Loss and a Fight
The eldest kitten began to fade. Snowy noticed it one morning, his movements slow, his cries weak. She rushed him to a clinic, then another, her hope fraying. The vets were kind but honest. He wouldn’t make it.
Snowy brought him home, letting Shiller lick him one last time. She buried him in the community flowerbed, the earth cool under her fingers. Shiller watched from the balcony, her eyes distant.
Then came the trouble with Shiller. She bled, her appetite gone. The vet found a torn birth canal, inflammation high.
Snowy paid for shots, medicine, hairball paste for constipation. Her savings dwindled—3,210 RMB in total, a heavy sum.
But Shiller’s recovery mattered more. Snowy fed her chicken breast and egg yolk, watching her strength return. Pingping and An’an thrived, their tiny paws like pink grapes, their eyes opening to the world.
But danger lingered. A tabby cat, aggressive and bold, invaded the balcony. It attacked the kittens, leaving bites on An’an’s arm and Pingping’s ear. Snowy’s heart pounded. She set traps, her anger sharp.
The tabby was clever, stealing food without triggering the cage. Snowy cleaned the kittens’ wounds, her hands steady despite her fear. She wouldn’t let them be hurt again.
A Quiet Bond
The tabby was caught at last. Snowy took it to the vet for neutering, her resolve firm. She released it far from home, hoping it would find a new life. Shiller, fierce and protective, had chased it off once, her claws flashing.
Snowy admired her courage, her loyalty to her kittens. They were a family now, bound by quiet moments—Shiller sleeping on Snowy’s arm, Pingping and An’an curling up by her feet as she put on makeup.
Snowy’s allergies eased with anti-allergy spray, a small victory. She laughed when Shiller jumped on the washing machine to watch her cook, her orange fur glowing in the light.
Pingping and An’an grew bolder, chasing each other, tumbling over toys. An’an guarded her food, a habit Snowy tried to break gently.
Pingping, renamed Marshmallow by her new owner, found a home with Snowy’s friend. Snowy packed her food, her heart heavy but warm.
Shiller’s spaying went smoothly. She returned home, quieter, her eyes still bright. An’an, now alone with Snowy, was a handful—chewing cables, knocking over bowls.
Snowy wrapped her in a pee pad to calm her, teaching her gently. An’an’s gray eyes sparkled, her mischief softening into affection. Snowy felt the weight of her care, but also its warmth.
Every night, Shiller crept onto Snowy’s bed, licking her hand. Snowy didn’t push her away. The balcony was clean now, the kittens safe.
Snowy’s exhaustion faded when she saw them sleep, their small bodies rising and falling. She thought of the alley, the cries, the moment she chose to stay. It was enough.
This story was inspired by a quiet, touching video you can watch here. If it moved you, feel free to support the original creator.